Death
by Blue Yeti
Summary: COMPLETE. Three deaths. How these deaths shape the world and the fairies who survive them. Details Holly's first few days at the LEP. First story in the Triangle Arc. PreAF Hollycentric, with a side order of Trouble and Grubby revelations.
1. Part One The Deaths

**WARNING** This story instigates non-consensual sex, and rape (although not described graphically or violently). It describes a violent relationship and also describes violent actions and decisions. This may disturb some people, especially younger readers, and so I can now say that you have been warned. This is the reason for the R rating. If you feel that you can't cope with the idea of violence or non-consensual sex, or that you simply don't want to read something which contains this, then please don't read this story. There is also reference to a character (Holly) being gay and this is a warning so you're not shocked or flame me with 'EWWWWW!! Holly can't be a lesbian! She's going to get with Arty, we all know it!' Keep in mind this is a fan fiction – that means this is just a story by 15-yr-old little me typing on this stuffed-up computer in suburban Sydney. I don't have any authority over the Artemis Fowl books, and I really don't think Colfer's going to make any of the characters gay so you're quite safe – although, I don't think he's going to get Artemis and Holly together either. And it is for a good, logical, emotionally traumatizing, plot-driven and plot-responsive reason. 

**Disclaimer:** All the characters recognizable from the Artemis Fowl books (I don't think I've actually mentioned any situations... What does that say about this?) belong to Eoin Colfer and his publishers. I am not making any money from this.   
**Author's Note:** This is the first part in the Triangle Arc - a three part series of semi-related events involving situations with the Artemis Fowl characters. Each story will contain three parts to it, and this is only the first part of Death, which is quite a lot shorter than either of the others in Death. Each story will essentially have three stories or events, which can be linked to each other and the main idea of the particular part. The three parts are Death, Life and Future. The quotes at the start are taken from the three books in Terry Pratchett's 'Johnny Maxwell' series, since I've been dying to use Pratchett quotes forever.   
**Author's Note 2:** It has come to my attention recently while rereading the books that Grub is not actually all that mentally handicapped (at least not in the original or TEC). What I had interpreted as that was just a childlike reliance on his family, while he actually has a reasonable vocabulary and doesn't have more than a normal level of stupidness. But, for this story, I can't change this interpretation because of how central the idea of Grub being mentally handicapped is to the plot. And so this fic is an AU (Alternate Universe) and should be treated as such. 

**Death**

"Um ... look ... when I looked up and I saw that _thing_ ... I mean, it was so real... And I thought, but it's alive, it's living, how can I--"  
"Yes," said Johnny.  
"And then it was dead and ... I didn't feel like cheering ..."  
"Yes."  
"When it's real, it's not easy. Because people die and it's really over."  
"Yes. I know. Over and over."  
From Terry Pratchett's _Only You Can Save Mankind_

* * *

On the day Holly Short was born, it was raining in the world above her. On the day Juniper Short died, it was raining in the world above him. Whoever said these had to be two different days? In one way, the physical way, they were. Two different days, separated by 64 years, 7 months and 12 days. In another way they were the same - two events separated by mere hours, minutes. Who can tell? 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

**6th of December, 1985**  
The room was freezing as soon as he entered it. In fact, it had been freezing for years and years, probably since before he was even born - the room predicting the pain it was going to house in the future and preparing itself. The room lay in a nice house in the Haven suburbs, it had a reasonable view, nice bay windows, and a peaceful, earthy colour scheme. It should have, could have, been a happy place. It wasn't. 

When the girl entered the room, muscles fresh from exercise, mind ready and pumped for violence, he didn't so much as freeze in what he was doing. The woman below him turned her eyes to the eyes of the girl and pleaded for her to run away, to run away as fast and far as she could. But the girl didn't like cowards. And she was tired of being one herself. She had always wanted to fight, but she had never had the guts to strike him. Now she did. 

She threw a punch at him and pulled him off her mother in a moment. Breathing hard, she pummeled him and pummeled him, letting the rage burn and burn and burn. She hadn't been able to kill not long ago but now, with her hands, knees and feet doing the work her brain was barely involved at all. She couldn't stop, not even if she had the faintest desire to do so. The satisfaction was not in the kill, it was not in the revenge, it was in knowing that he wouldn't be able to hurt them anymore. And the satisfaction was so great it _hurt_. 

**4th of December, 1985**  
The workfairies trying to fix one of the major banks of filters for Haven's air supply hadn't been able to do much, even after working on it for quite a few hours. The failed filter meant that about half the air coming into the city was straight from above, unheated and still polluted. 

It was so cold that ice formed from the warm, panting breaths of people running through the street - the pursued and the pursuers. One man - a crazy grin on his face, running, jumping, fleeing; and the others - running, chasing, just wanting to stop him however they could. The group split up, units running in different directions at the cross-road with the idea of cornering the fairy. In one group, there was only two. They ran. Ran as fast as they could, trying to keep ahead of the premonition of more dead bodies lying at the man's feet. 

And the man ran out of a side street and crashed into the younger, smaller elf. The woman, who still had the features and nature of a young girl. And he was holding her close to him, facing her partner and staring into his eyes, daring him to do anything. He held her shoulder and pushed her away slightly so that he could look her over. He licked his lips, then brought them down over hers. She had a neutrino blaster in her hand, she knew that she could - should - shoot him and then it would all be over, all the pain would be over... she was about to... And she couldn't. She didn't. He laughed at her weakness and she flinched as though he'd slapped her. She flinched at her own cowardly nature. 'I'll enjoy watching you suffer.' he said... 

And then he was dead. The partner rolled the body off her and pulled her close. Platonic. Comforting. Degrading. Condescension personified. She pushed him away. 

And ran again. 

**12th of October, 1967**  
The heating had been broken for years now but there had never been enough money spare to get it fixed. The entire house was on its last legs anyway. And, well, the family wasn't so far behind. And so the rooms were cold today - the atmosphere holding the chill that came from both the recycled air of the Underground and the individual people who had long since stopped talking together for fear of the accusations and hurt that would eventuate. And no one really noticed the discord anymore; it was simply part of their lives. They each had their own defense - the mother would cook exotic meals, even if they would never be eaten; the elder brother had his sports, and mates to whom sensitivity was a strange and bizarre concept; the younger brother had books, piles and piles of fantasy and science-fiction, each story an individual world where things, people, were either good or evil, bad or good, not part of this muddle that is life. And the father had his drink. 

The younger brother, probably only 40 or so and still in primary school, had a favourite place to sit. He would sit cross-legged in the corner with his back against the kitchen wall, a favourite book open in his lap. This is where he was today. This is where he would never sit again. 

The father came in, smelling of cheap spirits and anger. It came off him through every pore, poisoning the air and people around him. 

The mother heard him, but paused to wash her hands in the sink and wipe the tears from her bright eyes with a dirty dishcloth. She paused again at the door, steeling herself for whatever was to come. It had already started happening when she entered the living room. 

The father was yelling - nonsense words, irrational ideas; yelling so loudly that the younger son's book had dropped to the floor when he raised his hands to cover his ears, what he had just read forgotten completely. Or maybe the book dropped when the boy was picked up bodily and shoved back against the wall, the father shouting again and again, wanting the boy to prove himself worthy, prove himself a man. 

The elder boy heard the sound, wished that it didn't exist, wished that he couldn't hear at all, and then, when it refused to be dismissed as a figment of his imagination, came rushing from his shared bedroom, from which he had forced his brother from hours before because he had wanted to phone his girlfriend. He came into the room, gently but forcibly pulled his mother away, and went after his father. He talked, he shouted, but the father didn't want to listen at all; he wanted a fight. 

The father slammed the boy in his arms into the wall once again and laughed at the resounding crack. The other boy, the powerful boy, lost it, lost control. He attacked his father, ripped the material of his brother's shirt in pulling the clenched, drunken hands away. He pushed the father into the air, not gloating about his power but trying to make his father see the pain that their family ran on. And how they ran on it because of him. But the father couldn't realise, he couldn't see it, and so he fought back. He thrashed, scraping the son with his fingernails and butting him with his intoxicated head. 

But the son didn't care anymore. He couldn't stand it anymore. He threw his father against the far wall and fled out the door. It slammed shut behind him. 

END OF PART 1 of 3


	2. Part Two The Story

**Disclaimer:** No ownage. Read the first chapter for all the warnings, disclaiming and excessive Author's Noting. This time, all I have to say is **Slime Frog**, you ask, and you receive. 

Holly Short pretended that she wasn't nervous, but really she was. In fact, she was terrified. Absolutely terrified. _Applying_ for the job as LEPrecon had been fine because she had had the secret thought that whatever she did wouldn't matter, she had believed that she wasn't going to get accepted anyway. The look on her face when they actually took her on had been very ... shocked. She almost, in a way, deep down at a sub-conscience level, hadn't wanted to get the job at all - because then it would have proven her point about sexism and discrimination. But that doesn't mean that she didn't want to be doing this. She had wanted to be a policewoman since ... since she was 9 years old and had had a dream where she arrested her father, having such power over that stupid man that she could put him away and ruin his life the way he had ruined her mother's; and her's. She still had the dream on occasion - although now it was more often a daydream. 

Her new captain came her way and she stood to attention so quickly that something in her shoulder cracked under the pressure. He nodded to her, gave her and her uniform a once-over, his eyes pausing at the obvious swells of her breasts, noted the trim, practical crew cut she had been wearing for years now and ... smiled. Holly felt her back stiffen; she was often subjected to condescending smiles and patronising, tolerant looks. Then he spoke. 

"Lance-Constable Short?" Holly nodded, just once. She stared at his straight, military poster-boy jawline. 

"My name is Caption Trouble Kelp and you've been assigned to my squad temporarily. At least, I presume so. Commander Root just said: 'you've got another one for a while, Kelp. Short. Some hothead girlie who wants to prove her stuff. The Council wants to look like they're paying attention to the needs and wants of the city. Idiotic bastards.' You have to excuse the Commander, miss; he's not terribly fun to be around at any time. And he's been having a few troubles of his own lately so he's under a lot of stress." 

Holly almost shrunk into the background, the way she had been trained and expected to do for her entire life, but she gritted her lip and forced out the words. "You can't call me 'miss'. That's discriminatory. I'm either Lance-Constable or just Short." 

"I'm sorry, Lance-Constable," Trouble said, sitting down and rubbing a hand through his slightly oily hair, "I did not mean to offend you; I only meant to be friendly. I know how important it is to feel welcome on your first day. My younger brother just got accepted in LEP Academy last week. He's been terrified ever since." 

"At least your brother won't have to wait for a week as they build a female bathroom - like I had to do. And they were too embarrassed to let me board with the other recruits, even though I wasn't embarrassed at all. They seemed to think that someone might try to take advantage of me, or put me in an awkward situation." 

Trouble looked her up and down again, analyzing the odds of anyone who tried to take advantage of her still having all the vital bits of their anatomy later. She was extremely pretty, even beautiful - which is much more prized in a society such as the underground where fairies live through so many fazes of 'pretty' that it means nothing at all. But she was also ... dangerous. She looked like a woman who had been fighting all her life. And not just any fighting - she had been fighting in seedy back streets against 7 tattooed men double her bulk and their pet terrier. And winning. She looked like a woman who didn't give a damn that people stood in her way - because she could just go through them if necessary. 

"No," Trouble said, more regretful than angry. "My brother just has to put up with people calling him a retard, talking down to him, and acting like he doesn't exist most of the time." 

"Hmp," said Holly uncommitably. "Why?" 

"He received a head injury a few years ago. He was brain damaged." Trouble sighed, "he hasn't been the same since." 

Holly looked slightly sheepish, or at least showed some compassion that she wasn't able to hide behind the feminism and anger. "Sorry, Captain. I... Sorry." 

"That's quite alright. You weren't to know, Short. So... is there any other name that you have? Or were your parents particularly uninventive and forgot to give you a first name?" 

"You shouldn't be flirting with me, Captain." 

"I'm not. I'm being friendly. What is your name, Lance-Constable Short?" 

"Holly. But you can't call me that while we're on duty. It violates police protocol." 

"Hmmm... Holly suits you. But I should warn you that most of the guys call each other by their first names the majority of the time. And then there's the people like Foaly - our chief technician - who has never addressed anyone 'properly' in his life. And everyone uses first names or nicknames while off duty, hanging out together at the pub and such. Don't be offended if someone else asks for your name or 'flirts' with you. You don't need to pay attention to the flirts, because they probably aren't worth it. But you do need to pay attention to your squad-mates - they could be all that's between you and death on more than one occasion." Holly opened her mouth again, about to protest. "Not that I'm saying you need protection from anyone. Just ... things happen. You don't know - or want to know - how many times I've had my back to the wall in an impossible situation, and help then is always wanted - and acceptance of that help does not make you weak, it makes you stronger." He paused for a moment. "And anyway, I bet such a beautiful girl would be able to get herself out of any situation easily." 

Trouble didn't see the hand coming towards him before he felt the impact of the slap. Holly was on her feet and livid, glaring at Trouble with the combined forces of two super-novas. Then she realised what she had done and dropped back into her seat. 

"Oh, God. I'm sorry, Captain. I just ... I ..." 

"I shouldn't have said that. I only said it to get a rise out of you Short, and I shouldn't have. Just put one point beside my name on the Complete Utter Bastard list." 

Holly almost grinned. Almost. "I shouldn't have reacted like that. I'm just... I'm so sick of it. First at my previous jobs, then at the Academy. I... I'm sorry, Captain." 

"Nothing to be sorry for. Nothing at all. And I'm not going to report you for abusing an officer either, so relax." 

She relaxed, only making a slight difference from her constantly alert usual state of existence. "It's just. Well, sometimes men have thought that I was resisting their advances just to be difficult, to give them a ride and... Well, then they find out and sometimes they... I'm a lesbian anyway." 

"Hmm, I'm sure that a lot of men are sorry to hear that. But... Are you really? Or do you just have a complex which makes you always want to be different, always the underdog, the person who'll get more ridicule than anyone else? Making yourself an injured martyr whenever you can to prove your point, to make yourself feel justified." 

Holly opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "How dare you say something like that? You don't know me at all!" 

"I've read your file. And your psych report." He tapped a manila folder on his lap. 

"You... That means you already knew my name!" 

"Yes. Yes, I did. But I wanted you to tell me." 

"How do I lodge an official complaint about a superior officer?" 

"You can't. Not if the only reason for it is he was trying to get you used to pressures which stupider officers will most likely place upon you for real." 

"Is the morally uplifting talk over? When do I start my training?" 

"20 minutes ago, Holly. But now, we'll have a break and I'll take you to meet the squad." 

Holly actually growled in response to this. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

**~ Holly ~** Punching his face isn't quite as satisfying as it usually is, not today. So I imagine the punching bag is my captain instead. It doesn't work either. I can still feel the rage flowing through my veins, the almost physical pang of wanting to hurt someone. Breath heaving, I drop to the floor and duck the swinging bag. I curl my hands into fists until the nails dig in and liquid seeps through my fingers. 

I catch a glimpse of myself in the gym's wall length mirror. There are tiny drops of red blood on the carpet and my non-descript grey workout clothes, which somehow seem to highlight my figure. But the moon-shape nail marks are already healed – the wonders of being a fairy. My hair, dripping with sweat and caked with mud still accentuates my features. And the crew cut just makes me more attractive, ironically enough. I cut off my hair to be ugly, he didn't want me to do it, and … it makes my face look even prettier. 

God, I wish I were ugly. Nothing would be as bad as it is if I was ugly. 

"Hey, Hol. Are you almost finished? I've got a date tonight and I wanted to close the gym early." Jimmy – the gym owner and the only person to ever beat me in a karate tournament, when I was a newbie and also sick – calls. He looks down at me, slumped on the floor, sweat staining my clothes. "You look like you've really hammered that bag to hell and back." There's the unspoken question that there always is. _I know something's more wrong that usual. If you ever want to talk, ever, even at noon on Christmas Eve, I'll be here for you._

"Yeah. I guess I did." I look up at the bag, hanging over my head like that mythological figure's sword that hung by a horse-hair. 

"How was your first day on Recon? Catch any baddies or flatten any co-workers?" 

I grin, still looking at my reflection in the mirror. "No baddies. One superior officer. And I've got a provisionary with Retrieval Seven. After a while with them I get moved to Recon." 

"Was the team warned?" 

"I bet they wished they had been. Although," even I can hear the distain in my voice, "some of them quite liked the idea of a new team-mate. It's amazing how popular being the only girl in a few hundred guys makes you." I finally look up at Jimmy. "You should join the ballet or something – all those girls, you'll get laid every night." 

"I'll have you know I'm very popular anyway. You're holding me up for a date right now." 

I feel instantly guilty and get to my feet. Jimmy sees the blood stains on the carpet, and the ones on my pants. I brush my hands down and cover them, but we both know what isn't been said, what isn't ever going to be said. 

"It doesn't matter. I can stay in for another hour or so, you know… If you want to keep going?" There was the _talk to me, Holly_ again. I try to keep my face neutral, but he still sees something there. 

"When does he get home, Hol? Do you want to wait it out here for a bit longer? If… If you need to … You can come and stay at my place." 

There are tears in my eyes, I can feel them. Jimmy can see them. I close my eyes tight, trying to get rid of them before they take me over – the way they have so many times before. 

"What about your date? You've got to take them every chance you can, Jimmy. I'm fine. I swear it." 

He looks at me straight. He can't believe me anymore. _I_ can't believe me anymore. 

"Sure, Hol. How about I leave the keys here and you can lock up whenever you're ready to go. I'm sure you can bash this poor bag around for another few hours." 

"Thanks, Jim." He chucks me the keys and a small packet of tissues from behind a treadmill. 

"I'll see you later, Hol. 'Kay?" 

"Sure." I take a swig at the bag and it swings away from me. I give Jimmy a maniac grin as he looks back from the door. I know that I'm not kidding anyone but admitting it would be … it would only make things worse. I know it 

The other lights are turned off and shadows lurk in the corners – the only light still on is the one right above the bag. 

I swing again. Just once. That's for Jimmy and his concern. 

And then I take another swing. Then each punch leads into the next one. I'm in a rage, uncontrolled and _I don't care_. 

They're for _him_. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The date was horrible. Jimmy hadn't been able to keep his mind on the girl and well, she had taken it extremely well considering what she thought he was doing. 

It wasn't until he was almost half of the way back to his apartment that he realized that he was taking the long route. So that he would pass by his small, unsuccessful and rather insignificant gym – pathetically named Jimmy's Gym, which is probably one of the reasons it's such a flop. But it was probably a good idea – just to check that Holly hadn't left a door open or a light on. 

Turning the corner he can see the gym and sure enough there's a light left on. Jimmy rattles the doorknob, and at least that's locked properly. He pulls the spare keys from his pocket, opens the door and is about to turn off the single light when he spots Holly. She's lying on the disgusting carpets that smell of sweat – Jimmy has been meaning to get them cleaned for months now – whimpering in her sleep. 

Jimmy feels the grimace on his face and his eyes are tingling with imminent tears. He bends down gently, shaking her awake, whispering soft words in her ear. 

She wakes with a start, sobbing, and buries herself in Jimmy's dress-shirt. 

"It's okay, Holly. Just a dream, okay. Just a dream." 

"No it wasn't." 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Holly's eyes are red-rimmed in the morning as she goes into Police Plaza; the redness is from both lack of sleep and crying. She could remember every minute of last night with horrible, emancipating clarity. And there wasn't enough time to go back home in the morning before work so she had just left a quick message on the answering machine. She would have to face the music in the night when she got back. God, she dreaded the idea of that. 

The secretary raised her head from a pile of paperwork and a phone-call, and indicated to Holly that she should go into the briefing room. Holly could see most of her team through the partially frosted glass doors and the rest probably hadn't gotten in yet. 

"--It's not we don't know who he is, Bell, it's that no one has been able to capture him yet. His name is Jonathan Millet. He hasn't been attempting to hide himself or his identity – not even while … killing the victims." The team is still, all of them trying to get their minds around the idea of someone who _likes_ killing. Who doesn't care about taking innocent lives. 

"Well, obviously. He doesn't need to hide his face if the people who are going to see him are going to be dead soon. Why should he bother?" 

Holly is almost as shocked as the rest of the room is at what she said. 

"Well, that's how I see it, anyway." 

The people in the room start breathing again. 

"An excellent observation into the criminal mind, Lance-Constable," congratulates the speaker at the front of the room. "Short is indeed right. Millet doesn't care about showing his identity because he intents to kill all the people who end up seeing him." 

"But, then why do we know it's him? How could anyone ID him?" 

"One of his potential victims escaped from him. She told the story to us and managed to ID him from a mug-shot. Since then – about a month ago – he has been on the run and we thought he had stopped killing because he was afraid. It turned out he hadn't. Last day, a body was found in Meta street. Another woman. The autopsy lap says that she had been dead for about threedays before she was found. Her name was Susanna Plantain. The … way she died … is by strangulation. Which is how Millet killed his 2 previous victims. He also … violated … his victims. Including Susanna." 

The room contained the same horrified silence and stillness that it had before. 

"How? Did he bite them? Make them up and give tea parties? Rape them? Say it. It helps if you say it." 

It was Holly again. She could barely believe the words from her own mouth. 

"Rape. She was raped, Short." 

Holly's breath stopped. She had wanted the answer to be something else, anything else. Tears prickled in her eyes. 

"If you would like, Holly," that was Captain Kelp, "you could go outside. You don't have to hear all this. Go to the bathroom, wipe your eyes." 

"Why?! I don't need to do that! Why did you single me out for that, Captain? Bell doesn't want to be here. Why do you ask me to leave when he very clearly _wants_ to?" She wiped a hand across her eyes, the hand shaking with emotion. 

"I wasn't being discriminatory, Short. I swear. Just… you don't have to be here. Not if you don't want to be." 

"Yes I do. It would be betraying those girls if I left." 

Trouble nodded and indicated to the lecturer that he should go on. 

"Well, that's it really. I've got all the other information here and we need to look through it all so that we can try and find out where he might be hiding, who he might go after next. I've put the data together in piles – not by victim but by the aspects that might have some pattern. Most of it's on the computers but there's a few newspaper articles and such I didn't have time to scan before Foaly kicked me out of the room for acting suspicious." 

"Foaly?" Holly whispers to the elf next to her. 

"Absolutely mad. A centaur, of course. LEP Head of Technology. Pretty much the head of technology for the Underground as well. But he's paranoid. If you add up all the people that are supposedly out to get him I bet they add up to more than the population of the Earth – Underground and Over." 

"Right. I'll keep that in mind for when I meet him. Want to join me in studying location?" 

"Fine by me." 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

**~ Holly ~** I probably look absolutely furious. Barging into the gym, heading straight for the dojo. But I don't really care all that much. The only thing important to me right now is letting out some of this anger. And punching his face in. God, I wish I had the guts to do that for real. 

"God, I hate him." 

"I know you do, Hol." 

"Oh. Jimmy. I said that aloud?" 

He nodded. 

"What did he say about last night?" 

"A complete load of shit. But… well, I kind of made it seem as though … as though … wearegoingout. I hope you're not angry." 

"Of course, I not. Create rumours about me being with the most beautiful gal in Haven whenever you wish. Did it make it any better?" 

"Well, instead of ranting about my homosexuality making me abnormal and _wrong_, it was about the wonders of birth control. I think the meaning was something along the lines of 'I don't want a miniature brat around as well to make my life even more of a hell'." 

I can feel the tears in my eyes, and, how much would I give for them to not be there. Jimmy graps me in an awkward sideways hug which is still comforting. 

"Don't worry about him, okay, Hol?" 

I nod. 

How twisted is that? His opinion still matters to me. Even after all the _shit_ he's put Mum and I through. And he's proven he's a senseless, idiotic bigot more than once. More than once an hour, that is. But I still want him to love me. Hell, I'll settle for him not hating me. And I wish I wanted that so that when I prove just how much I hate him it'll hurt him. And hurt him _hard_. But … 

I bet there's some psychological reason which an LEP analyst will pull from me at the next psych test. God, I hate psychology. All those reasons for why you are as you are… It means you can be put down in a computer file somewhere, your world-shattering problems reduced to a heap of 1s and 0s. Wouldn't _his_ psych test be something interesting. 

"What did you say?" I bearly heard him. "Hol?" 

"I told the fucking bastard that he is a fucking bastard and that he should go and shove his birth protection where the moon doesn't shine. But where lots of moonlight will shine once I'm done with a machete." I look up and Jimmy and grin. "Well, without the fuck, the bastard and the moonlight. Or the machete." 

"Why?" 

I feel my eyebrows crease as I look up at him. 

"Why didn't you say all those other things? You mean them. He could do with hearing them, as well." 

"I… It would just makes it worse. I've done it a few times, lost my head at him and then… It just got worse after. For Mum as well." 

"I would say that you should leave home - you're definitely old enough - but I already know why you don't want to do that." 

He knows it. I know it. If I leave it'll be worse for Mum. At least he's scared to give me bruises where people will be able to see them now. I've taken to dressing like a slut with low neck-lines and wide mid-drifts for just that reason. The cat-calls from guys and the taunts from him are better. I've wanted to leave before – I even ran away a few times when I was younger – and I wanted Mum to come too but … she loves him somehow. I don't know how. Or why. 

"How about I just challenge you to a match instead." Jimmy says; throwing the tracksuit I leave here in my direction and tying a thick fabric band across his own forehead. 

"Karate?" 

"Nar. Pilates." 

I grin at him and, behind the forced movement I do feel something, which in bad lighting could be called amusement. "You're on. Pilates it is." 

Jimmy grins at me, and pulls a bench out of the way so that we have more room to move and attack. 

"If you've ever attended a Pilates class in your life, I'll eat my wings. While in flight too." 

"That would be interesting. Very interesting actually, given how tough and chewy Sprite wings are. Well, once I was going to a physical training seminar, but I hadn't copied down the location correctly so I ended up in the wrong building entirely and well, since a class was on, I de—" 

"Shut up, Holly! Fight me." 

"I'd be delighted." 

Soon my muscles overtook the movements and my brain was allowed to sink into the background. I've fought Jimmy so many times that I could do it in my sleep. It's not that he's bad – he's more than reasonable – but it's just that I know him well enough to predict even his best moves. And I have time to remember last night. 

_ In the moments after I was forced awake, I only wished that I could sleep again. Not because I want the dreams, but because in sleep I can only give my friend suspicions, not answers. If I'm awake I might crack, and I truly don't know what I would do then. Cry probably. Then run away as far as I could possibly go. Scrap that, I was already crying. _

"It's okay, Holly." I could hear through the chaos of my own thoughts and emotions. "Just a dream, okay. Just a dream." 

But, I wanted to protest, not everything you think of as a dream is. Not everything you hope is a dream is. And rarely what you dream about is real. But sometimes it is. And sometimes you wish that nothing was dreams, and that nothing was real, and that nothing existed at all. 

"No it wasn't." I tried to take a bigger breath though the sobs. "It wasn't only a dream. It was reality first, and only after that did it become a dream." 

Jimmy pulled me tight, cradling my head in his large hands. "Tell me, Holly. Talking helps. It always helps, if only a little. If it only helps friends to understand you." 

"I … I can't. And I don't want to." I said softly. Then louder, as anger at him, at the world, at Jimmy, takes over. "I don't want to talk to anyone!" 

Jimmy nodded slightly, pulling me closer, even as I was trying to pull away. He wiped my eyes with the sleeve of his dress shirt. 

"How about a truth for a truth? I tell you something, and you tell me something in return." 

I didn't think that I nodded, responded, but Jimmy started talking anyway. 

"I grew up in an orphanage. I was told that my father had died at the hands of the Mud Men just after I was conceived and that my mother had died in childbirth. One day myself and a group of others decided to raid the main office of the orphanage to get our files. And I found out that both my parents are alive. And that I had a twin, a sister, named Susanna. And that my parents had given me up because they had only wanted one child. My sister had grown up with them, while I was given up." 

He sighed. "Now it's your turn, Hol. The truth." 

"I… I can't." 

"Okay, I'll ask you questions instead. And you can answer, or nod, or do nothing at all." 

I felt Jimmy move slightly, moving his arms to cradle me more comfortably. 

"Your father beats you because he doesn't like girls, especially not those trying to be tough, trying to have power." 

I said, did, nothing, just staring over his shoulder at the darkened wall behind him. 

"He's hated you since you were born, but you hated him back so you did everything you could to make him hate you even more than he already did. That's why you've worked so hard to become the best at karate, and fighting, and got the job with the LEP – all those things he hates a girl to be doing." 

"No." I shake my head, still not looking at him. "I did all that so I could be able to protect myself." 

Jimmy's hand brushed down the side of my face, smoothing the skin. 

"Did it work, Holly?" 

"No, Jimmy. No it didn't. But nothing works against him, not really. Nothing works against someone who thinks of life as a game to be won. And believes that if something can't be won then it must be destroyed." 

"Well, then you'll just have to tip the game board upside down, wont you?" 

"It's not that easy. You know it's not. He's my father; I can't do anything about him. I can't." 

"It's not your fault that he's your father. That's entirely the fault of your parents." Jimmy grinned at me, and I almost slapped him then. 

"Not my mother. Never my mother. All she ever did was love him, even though he cared nothing about her. And she still loved him, even after he raped her and got her pregnant. He saw her watching him at work – they used to work together – and decided he liked that. And then one day he tricked her, cornered her, and then he raped her. And that's why I exist. Isn't it charming? Every time since he's been careful about birth-control. And when that's not worked… My mother's had three miscarrages. I was watching the second time. I was watching as he pushed her down the stairs, trying to hurt her enough that she lost the baby. I think Mum did it herself the last time. He hadn't even known about the baby yet so Mum just got rid of it before he did it for her." 

I looked, finally, into Jimmy's green-tinged face. "That's the truth. Does it make you feel any better? Because it doesn't make me feel any better." 

"Your father raped Hannah – your mother? But… why isn't he in Howler's doing life?" 

"He had a good lawyer. And Mum defended him, pretended that it didn't happen that way. For her family, from her snobby, upper-class background, it was better to be unmarried and pregnant than raped and pregnant – though not by much." 

"Maybe it didn't happen that way. Maybe you've just—" 

"He did. I know he did. He likes sex to be painful. He likes screams. I know." 

Jimmy swallowed, stuttered, tried to comprehend it. "He… He's done that to you? Please tell me he hasn't done that to you, Hol." 

"That's what you want to hear is it? Okay then, he hasn't done that to me." 

"When?" 

"A few times. Just after I hit puberty. But not for a few years now. Now he's scared of me." My voice wasn't gleeful, not triumphant, just … resigned. Sad. Oh, God, I want him to care for me. 

"Good. I'm glad he's scared of you, Hol. He should be bloody scared of me as well!" 

I grasped his arm as he made to stand up. "Don't. He's my problem to deal with. Not yours. Please… don't get involved. Please." 

"I… Sure, Holly. But… you can come over anytime you like. If you want to talk, or escape, or a hug from someone who can probably manage to control himself. You know where I am, 'kay?" 

I nodded. And he pulled me into the promised hug. His arms are warm, his breath against my cheek comforting, and I squish his cool wings slightly as I wrap my arms around him. 

"I'm sorry." 

"Wha--? Why, Hol? For what?" 

"About you growing up in that orphanage." 

He laughs slightly, and even though it's at me I find it the most reassuring thing in the world. 


	3. Part Three: The Reality

** Part Three: The Reality **

**Author's Note:** I've decided that I'm simply translating that which is not in the AF books. Namely, the word fuck. When you think of it, Colfer wrote '_D'Arvit!_' in AF and then said "There is no point translating that word as it would have to be censored." I've just translated it and not censored it. This story is rated R anyway, so I'm sure anyone reading this doesn't mind about a little fuck here and there. It also means I can use 'ed and 'ing as well, which is v. useful. Fuck is a great word I've discovered.  
**Author's Note 2:** This is the last part of Death. The first part of Life, the next in this Arc, will be up... in a timeframe directly proportional to how often and hard Slime Frog bugs me about it. That part will possibly only be rated PG-13.  


**Disclaimer:** Along with that mentioned in the first part of this story in regards to AF, the last paragraph of this section is a direct quote from '_Journey to the Center of the Earth_' by Jules Verne. That is copyrighted to him and no infringement is intended, it was simply the only children's book I had on hand to quote from. 

* * *

**4th of December, 1985**  
"We're on full alert, troops. Foaly's got a lead on that Millet fellow and we've got to be ready to follow it when we get the all clear from the Commander. Hear me?" 

The team saluted their captain, pulling their helmets onto their laps and checking the maintenance on their weapons. 

Trouble nodded to Holly, gesturing for her to join him in the far corner of the room next to the drink machine that spewed out poisonous nettle smoothies whenever some unwitting young recruit uses it. Trouble fixed it to make 2 nutritional drinks and sat down beside it, obviously expecting Holly to take the seat beside him. 

Holly stayed standing. "Are you going to lecture on 'do you really think you're ready for this?' and 'are you sure you don't want to sit this one out, Short?'" 

Trouble shook his head, grasping the toxic brew and taking a sip, scrunching up his eyes as the taste tingled on his tongue. "You know me better than that. This is one male you don't have to worry about in your 'look out for sexist Mud Worms, then beat them up' brigade. I just wanted to make sure you picked the best choice on this machine here," he said, slapping the metal side. "It wouldn't look good if I let a promising newbie die from food-poisoning." 

"Right." Holly picked up the other cup, looked at the grey slop dubiously and swallowed. Then gagged. "And that's the best one?" 

"Sure is. You _really_ don't want to try number 17. 

"Trust me, I won't." 

"Good." Trouble sipped at the drink again. Holly finally sat, just looking at hers. 

"Nervous, Lance-Constable?" 

Holly nodded, not looking at her captain, simply staring at an ugly picture on the wall opposite. 

"That's normal. It's more than normal. If you weren't, that's when _I'd_ become even more nervous." 

"I'll remember that." 

"Do you know what we'll probably end up having to do? Do you know all the possibilities, all the chances, and all the things that might just go wrong? And do you think that you'd do the right thing in such a situation – where the predictable has gone out to visit the Mud Men, your fellows are fallen and you're completely bereft of an annoying Centaur in your ear?" 

"That Foaly again?" 

Trouble nodded. "One of the last Centaurs left. You'll meet him soon enough, don't worry. Although you'll probably worry after you have met him. 

"And you changed the subject. I'm your captain, I deserve answers to questions like that." 

"I… I think I could. I probably could. But who can know the answer to that until the time and situation comes?" 

"Good answer, Holly. I'll tell you something; it's perfectly all right to be freaked out of your mind in that situation. And in times like that you should go with your guts, go with your instincts - they aren't in the habit of letting you down." 

"I'll keep that in mind, Captain." 

"You should. Another question: Do you think you would be able to kill? When push came to shove, when your life is in danger, or the life of your teammate or friend?" 

"Yes." 

"That's a blunt answer. Are you so sure?" 

"I'm sure." 

"Okay then. I'll tell you something else: Your first kill never leaves you. It doesn't matter if he was a murderer, a Mud Man, a child; he stays with you, looking over your shoulder at every turn. And, contrary to ideas from fiction, it doesn't get any easier. Your second kill never leaves you either. Or the third. It never gets easier; it only gets worse. And those souls are on your shoulder as well as your own demons and angels, weighing you down until you can barely get up in the morning. Don't be so ready to take the life of another." 

Holly's face showed her fear, her uncertainty. "I… I know – I believe at any rate – that sometimes it's the best thing." 

"Maybe. Sometimes it's the only solution, and sometimes it's an accident. But that doesn't change the act. And even if it looks like resolution, seems that it would clear the air and clean the world… it's painful. It's always a painful thing. I know." 

"…_Who?_ If you… Don't mind…" 

Trouble closed his eyes, scrunching them tight so that the tears brimming were unable to escape. 

"I've killed in the line of duty. When someone was threatening the team, civilians. But the first was in defense of my brother…" 

Holly gulped, wishing that she hadn't gone so far as to ask such a question. 

"He was a drunkard. My family had been hiding him for a time, not letting him be exiled from the People because he was special to us. Then he lost it one night, beat up Grub and … then I lost it too, just as badly as he had. It's probably better that he's dead – our family was falling apart - but that doesn't make it easier. I pushed him too hard, not meaning to kill him... and then he was dead anyway. It didn't matter that I regretted it, it didn't matter that it wasn't intentional. He was still dead." 

"Is that the injury that made your brother retarded?" 

Trouble nodded, face stoic, wiping his eyes while pretending that he wasn't, faking a cough to hide behind. 

"Well… you did the right thing then. If the man was being that violent you're lucky that your brother wasn't killed." 

"The man's dead, but that's not going to bring back the old Grub. It's impossible. I just--" 

The door opened and everyone looked up, pulling helmets on and standing up. "Julius's got the action past the Council, finally. You know how they are about offensives inside Haven itself. I don't envy ol' Beetroot, that's for sure. But you're free to do your worst, Captain Trouble. And Retrieval Two is on it as well, coming from a different station. Julius probably pulled the classic 'it could be your wife or daughter next' card." The centaur made a noise through humanoid lips that still somehow sounded like a whinny. "Bring Millet's head back on a platter, guys. With an apple in his mouth. No, make that a carrot, 'kay?" 

A few people laughed, but not much. The team filed out of the room at a jog, brushing past Foaly. As Trouble passed he plucked the arrest warrant from Foaly's hairy fingers. "Good luck, guys." He noticed Holly, grinning. "And gal. I bet you just stun them without touching that trigger." 

"I have many triggers, Foaly, sir. One is sexism." She slapped him. Then smiled in faux innocence. "Do we understand each other?" 

Foaly grinned even wider. "Perfectly, darling." He nodded at the back of her team; the non-sprites were already pulling on electronic wings in the entrance hall. "You better keep up or no one will be able to gawk at that gorgeous behind." 

Holly gritted her teeth, but pretended to ignore the stupid centaur. She ran down the hall after Retrieval 7. 

Foaly was whistling on the way back to his Ops Center. Ostentatiously he checked that all the recording systems attached to the Plaza cameras were working. Not that there was a chance in Hell that they weren't – he had constructed the system himself - but looking back through old tapes to find Holly's physical examination wasn't really a good enough excuse by itself. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Outside of the air conditioned Police Plaza it was cold, and Retrieval Seven felt this all too keenly as they followed the directions that Foaly had given them, Trouble on point. Retrieval Two was making their way to the target point from another location so they would be able to capture Millet in a classical pincer movement, overused and abused though it was. 

As they were nearing the location – a dank, uncommonly used supply-shed – Trouble put up a hand and they slowed, spreading out in the air, hovering a few meters above the ground. Since they were shielded the only way any member of the fairy public would be able to detect their presence was from hearing the almost non-existent buzz that came from the motors in their wings. 

Everyone was silent - Holly's silence being a violent, ferocious one. Trouble signaled to the team with his hands, holding them just over his own shoulder so he wouldn't have to turn around, knowing about the possible (but highly unlikely) interference from their radios if anyone inside or in the near vicinity was listening to the Top 40. Retrieval Two arrived and gave one squawk on their radio, hopefully not enough to alert anyone to the presence of the two teams. Trouble started a countdown on his fingers, and they knew that across the way, on the other side of the building, R2's captain was doing the same. 

And then, like in all Cops and Robbers movies, they barged into the deserted warehouse… and it was deserted. A salon-style double door at one end – leading into a makeshift office area - was swinging slightly. Coffee from a cheap chipped mug was spilt on the floor, the liquid running on the slightly uneven slope. An illegal video of violent, hardcore Mud Men porn was showing on an old television set. The wrappings of old fish and chips were strewn around it. 

_He doesn't really care about being caught, that's not why he's gone… us chasing is just another form of his power, his power of people, over us, over those 'not as smart'…_

Without a word passed between them, the two squads, minus one corporal from R2 who remained in the warehouse, ran through the still swinging door. Half immediately took to the sky, scanning all below with careful eyes and the sensory equipment in their helmets. 

There was a shout from Corporal Bell, then R2's captain turned to Trouble. "Your squad on the floor." 

Trouble nodded and started running in the direction that Bell had indicated before, pulling off his wings as he went so their drag would not slow him down. It was faster to fly, yet criminals on the run always expected the aerial pursuit – one of the good results from modern crime fiction, criminals no longer expected ground officers. 

The rest of R7 ran after him, Bell was the fastest in the group, but Holly wasn't the slowest. She didn't turn to look at anyone else – she was too scared to do that – but she wondered what they were thinking. Then the energy that it took to run properly, since concentration really has a much greater influence over performance than most people can understand, required her mind. And she didn't know what thoughts were running through their heads, let alone why, but she knew that one day – perhaps in only a few hours – she'd understand better. They'd done this before, they'd chased and run and … been terrified in the say that she was right now. But, Kelp said the fear never went away, and if it did you were a lost person, your fairity was lost to the world if you lost your emotional connection like that. 

She was terrified. But she didn't want the fear; she'd lived too long with fear. Perhaps it would all be better if she didn't feel at all, because things would be easy. And having faith, being fey in all the traditional ways … it wasn't what it was cracked up to be. Fairies were human; they'd even learnt how to learn fast. 

There was a split in the road, a 5-way area, with two of the entrances little more than alleys. One of the Sprites in the air waved his arm in the direction Millet had gone; three of the paths would need to be followed. Holly followed Trouble down the furthest right, and her breath was starting to burn the inside of her lungs as it came and went, (_whoever knew that oxygen could hurt so much?_) however fit she was. 

The rest of the team was down the other two, the wider passages through the old city. This was an ancient district; it had once been a village a reasonable distance from the town of Haven. But, like in all cities, Above and Below, the cannibalistic monster that moves in the name of progress and industry had swallowed it. The houses and derelict buildings on either side were crowding upon one another, staying up only by force of will and by resting upon one another's broken shoulders – the blind leading the blind, the fallen holding up the falling on their drowned bodies. This village was a victim of society, with it's two-up-two-down's it was the perfect breeding place for murderers, the perfect place to ruin fantasies. 

Holly ignored the burning of breath and ran on. She was just behind her Captain. He was more experienced; he knew the thoughts to think and wasn't distracted. He had longer legs and, frankly, men were more fit for this type of activity. She drew level… 

She didn't see the dark shadow of the alley at all, not even when a darker shadow – as blind as she was – emerged from it so fast that it seemed impossible. The darker shadow… Darkness in eyes, dark causing pain as she was half-knocked over, her hip and ankle twisting with the awkward pressure, already straining from the pace Holly had been traveling at. 

Her shoulder and arm were pulled away from where she had thought they were. And pain entered her mind via bruising force that was imprinting fingertips onto her dark skin, through the thick green material of her uniform. 

She was looking Millet in the face. And was surprised about his face. It was charismatic, handsome. No disfigurement of anything other than personality had led him to do the things he did. 

She had expected a monster, for who would have expected a male pixie, almost middle-aged, yet not quite, a rather fetching few strands of grey resting at his temple. Her father was a monster, she knew that, and since she did she saw that in her mind. Her father was twisted, ugly; not a tall, dark-haired man with not more than a few lines at his temple. Her father had warts and blemishes, his breath smelt of decay and his nose was crooked. His eyes spoke of death and destruction. 

Millet was… normal. Indescribable in his normalcy. His eyes implored her to trust him. But she knew death, or thought she did. She saw death. 

She had her Neutrino in her hand. The setting was on 4 - well done. It was pressed against his belly; her finger rested on the trigger. 

He pushed her away from his body slightly, looking her over. He licked his lips. 

Then pulled her close again, breathing a soft, gentle (_the breath of a lover_) murmur over her face. He kissed her lips, reverently, as if he loved her. He grinned, smirked, and his eyes were alight with another's imminent pain. 

The Neutrino was still there, its weight the same as always. But he was too real, for monsters are more real than the heroes. You stop believing in heroes that will save you early in your life; but fear, but monsters… they are always with you, after the heroes leave, after your family, friends… They're all gone, but the monsters are still there, always waiting in the darker places of your mind. 

Millet could wait forever. 

He laughed. Then bent even closer, his breath burning against her cheek. "I'll enjoy watching you suffer. You're going to be fun." He smirked again, a smirk that spoke of knowledge – knowledge of the deepest fears and anxieties. 

Then he was waiting forever. 

The demon behind his eyes went out. Which simply meant that he was gone, for he was the demon, and it wasn't a demon at all. It was a fairy, as all demons really are. 

Children's books blame it on evil, but nothing's evil. It's just… normal. It's just fey. For some people 'evil' is simply them; evil is just a stupid name that tries – and fails – to convey the darkest levels that exist inside everyone, and everyone tries to explain it away because they are so afraid of what they personally might be able to do, what someone might be able to do unto them. 

The body that had trapped Millet's demon - demon Millet - crumpled to the ground, and Trouble was standing behind him, his blaster not smoking, but showing a small orange light which indicated it was ready for firing. He was wearing a pained look, one that spoke of regret and resignation. 

Holly didn't know what she looked like, but she felt… wronged. She should have been stronger, she shouldn't have needed rescuing. She shouldn't have frozen, because that was what happened to other people, not to her. 

Trouble stepped over Millet's shell, as if it had never been a person, as if since it was a monster it wasn't a fairy as well… He wrapped her in a hug. And she closed her eyes, her weight resting upon his shoulder since her legs weren't strong enough to hold her up anymore. 

But then… 

She pushed Trouble aside and ran, again. She was good at running. And she didn't care when the air burnt her esophagus. 

She didn't care that the wind stung the tear tracks that marked her cheeks as she ran. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

**12th of October, 1967**  
**~ Trouble ~**  
I wish it wasn't like this. 

I wish that there were quiet. 

I wish that when we are alone, just the three of us, it was never as silent as it always is. The silence that bustles with the thoughts of future noise, with the memory of past melee. 

I wish I didn't know the oppressive feeling of silence, silence that speaks of submission, of communal pain that will only increase if it is voiced by a naive someone; of fear and terror and the knowledge that perhaps, one day, if given the option, you'd give your loved one up instead of having to face it all again yourself. A silence of pain and betrayal. We can't do anything for anyone, not even ourselves. I wish I could blame someone. But can you blame your pain on another when it's your fault, when it's you who allows it all to happen? 

I wish I didn't know the difference between this and the silence of comfort, or relaxation, when the air is heavy with lethargy and half-stirred, familiar, happy memories. 

_Fuck_, listen to me! I've listened to too much Rock and Goth. I should be wishing for Leanne to give me head, that's all I should be wishing for. 

I wish I could get the lines of this to look right. 

I glare at the penciled picture that lies on the desk before me. Where a jaw line should be there's a smudge of rubbed out lead, a slight thinning of the cartridge paper. I can't draw faces, it's impossible. 

I pull a doodle pad towards me and flip through to a new page. Barely conscious of the act, only knowing that I need to be doing something, I let my pen rest against the paper and make a line. It looks possible. Another. And it's a wing, something that can become something, possibly even something interesting. My hand moves without mental intervention, simply another inane turn of movement - of fingers and thumb and wrist, my hand raised above the paper so as to not smudge that which I've already done because it takes a few seconds for the ink to dry. 

And time doesn't matter, because what does? What the fuck does? 

There's an angel staring out of the page at me. Wings delicate, made of feathers, so easily shot through and destroyed. Large eyes, giving a wrong impression of innocence and suggestibility, for who can make even the darkest angel submit to their will other than God or Lucifer? He's dressed in black ink with, upon ghost white cheeks, tears that have the viscosity of blood. My eyes track to my arm, involuntarily. There's a small scar just above the elbow from when I snagged myself on a rusted fence not far from school when I was young. Sometimes I wonder if my blood would be as dark as the ink, black even though it shouldn't be. Sometimes I wonder if anyone would notice; if anyone could possibly care if my blood was making the pavement slippery. Sometimes I wonder if I would. Sometimes I wonder if-- 

And the silence breaks, as it always does. The way a wave making its slow way towards a shore is destined to. It shall take the debris it causes out with the tide, out into the poluted ocean, before it inevitably strikes again. 

I hear the door open first, slam against the doorjamb, making photo frames on the wall rattle. I've seen it enough to remember the details like that. It's the one of us all at a Beltane party 20 years ago that swings incredibly, almost enough to cause it to fall to the floor. But it never does. There's some kink in the thread that keeps it up there, mocking our existence of now. 

There's silence, potential building with every moment it continues. Then my mother's footsteps against the kitchen tiles. A creak of a heavy, well-worn boot on floorboards; floorboards that creaked when the house was new, and now simply creak with desperation - a creak that speaks of unwanted age and use thrust upon the poor wood and foundations. And I can imagine the soft sound of pages and hardback cover closing in my brother's book, but not before he's checked to make sure he knows what page he's on. 

I don't wonder what happens next, and the noise, the sheer coarse, now-unwanted break in the perpetual silence. Father's voice is low, gruff, and usually hesitant, with a thick lower-class accent. 

"Get up, boy." And my brother rises to his feet, hiding his fear behind a brave look because he believes that anyone with a good heart will always have a happy ending. Damn books. Giving him unrealistic ideas about the world. 

Grub wouldn't say anything, he never did. 

"You're a damn weakling, Grub. You're a – _HA!_ - grub, worthless, not even making a good meal for someone better and stronger than you are. Books? What the hell do you need with books? What does anyone need with books?" He's probably walked closer now, to where Grub has his back against a wall that begs to fall down. Maybe he's grasped the book and tried to rip it across the spine. "There are three important things in life: fucking, power and drink. You've got none of it, Grub. It's despicable." And our father gets slightly tongue-tided over the word; his drunken mouth not doing what he wants it to do. But it's not enough to bother him – or perhaps he never noticed. I can hear the sound of him hawking back his saliva and spitting a large dollop onto my mother's floorboards. 

Mother hates that. 

He doesn't care. 

There's a thump. 

"Get up, boy!" 

Another thump - softer, yet slamming against something that causes an echo. 

There's a whimper, and I wish I didn't have to hear it. And I feel so guilty for even thinking the thought, because I have heard it and I need to do something about it, because there's no way I couldn't. 

I go down the stairs, slowly, because I can't force myself to move any faster, not while knowing what I'm moving towards. And I'm too selfish to move faster. 

Mother's frozen at the door, calling out to Father, and I pull her aside before moving into the room. She tries to smile at me encouragingly, but can't make her muscles move the right way. She's got tears in her eyes. 

"Father." I call, and he turns slightly, lowering Grub until his feet are resting on the floor once more. Grub breathes in. Father turns back to him, yelling shit at me over his shoulder. 

I move towards him in a moment, disgust in my mind and thoughts and written in large print all over my face. I pull him away from Grub; I pull him to face me. I'm taller than him, by at least a few centimeters, and a good deal stronger. 

He swings a punch in my direction. It misses, and maybe I laugh, I really don't know. He kicks my shin as I hold his shoulders, the pain makes me wince but pain is just pain, it doesn't matter. 

We talk, or yell, but I don't know what we say. I just want to be able to talk to him, but I've known for years that that's hopeless. 

My father pulls away from me, he looks at Grub angrily, unseeing of any Person, just… another nuisance of the world. 

He pushes him against the wall once more and something cracks. Nothing inside me cracks alongside, not in synchronicity. But, just for a moment, my anger becomes more logical than it should be. It is a moment when logic reigns, because it _is_ logical, painfully logical. Anger is logic, and sometimes it's freedom. 

I pull my father away from Grub, some material ripping under my fingers that ply for grip and submission. And he's in the air, suspended a few inches above the ground as if he is a toy, not real. He isn't. Nothing can be real, no deity would be so cruel as to have the world be real, have this suffering be anything more than a nightmare, a game, a tragic fantasy. 

Reality… 

My father held above my head, my fingers bruising his shoulders. My mother having run from the doorway, cradling the lolling head of Grub in her arms; she's scared. The picture of the Beltane party, it has fallen from its place on the wall finally, after so many failed attempts. 

Reality has no full stop, life never does. Not even destruction is a full stop. 

And my father flies across the room as if he were a sack of flour, ready to split against the wall. 

Reality can't be reality, it can't be life. 

I run, because I want it all to end. 

The door slams shut behind me. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

**6th of December, 1985  
~ Holly ~**  
It was two days ago. Two days ago I stood there, breath upon my face that should have smelt of decaying meat… but didn't. Two days ago I had my neutrino pressed against the soft flesh of a murderer's stomach but was unable to give him justice. I was too weak, too weak. 

And he was too human. 

I leave my room, giving a (_scared, sad, horribly fascinated_) courtesy glance to the few photo frames that line the hallway. There are a lot of lies in this house - more than you'd think a fairy would be able to cope with, but People can survive anything, they don't even need much motivation - so the photos are a joke. They aren't real, none are real, and everyone knows it. Sometimes it makes me laugh, but my laugh is only a passable shadow that probably doesn't even have to power to cause an echo; it's a laugh that exists because the tears are far too stubborn. 

The gym's closed, dark, and should I really have expected otherwise this late at night? The equipment looms as shadows in a shadow realm, usually illuminated as they are by fluorescent lights that hide nothing and are so profuse they cast no shadows. 

I go around to the back and knock on the window, hoping that Jimmy will still be in the back. There's no answer. I make sure nobody is close, nobody is watching, then haul myself up so I'm atop of the gable. There's an upper window here, and if you hit it just right the catch goes and it swings open. It drops down into the toilet cubicle. 

In the gym I don't turn on any of the lights, preferring the gloom and greys, the only light coming from lamps streets away. The dark is comforting, for no one can judge me through it - no one, that is, but me. 

I pull a pair of boxing mitts from a storage cupboard, and don't bother changing into my usual gear – I'm wearing sweat-pants already, I don't need to change. 

The bag is just as unforgiving as always, and it's so much better than my Captain's worry and the damn psychiatrist, Arble. No, Arble was the guy who killed himself in the shaft-diving stunt, Argon's the psychiatrist. Both idiots. 

I don't know how long I stay, since the time doesn't matter, and I don't think of anything past which fist to swing next, when to dodge the flailing bag because a punch has landed too strongly. 

It's only when layer after layer of sweat has dried upon my body, when my arms can barely move anymore… When I'm so exhausted that I know that I won't dream of Millet when I sleep… Then I pull the gloves off and dump them on a shelf in the cupboard. I splash some water on my face in the bathroom before leaving through the backdoor, letting it swing shut and lock again behind me. 

The air's colder now, but that's just an impression because of the soft breeze against my bare arms and the tips of my ears. It's never really cold underground, not really. And it's never really warm either. But there's always great water pressure, as if that makes up for the lack of weather and moonlight. 

As if that makes up for the fact that we're all alone, taken away from what makes us _us_, so there's no way we can not be… what? What are we? It's fucking stupid. 

The lights are off in the house as I walk up the hill towards my family's house. It's a dank place, part of a housing estate that was made a few too many years ago to have any reasonable style, too long ago to be holding itself together by more than one, perfectly balanced bolt per house. The lights are off. They're never really on; the entire house is never lit up, only ever a few cold rooms at a time. Our neighbours must think we're very conscientious about energy shortages. 

We're not, but impressions are nine tenths of the wanted reality. 

I pull a key from my pocket. It's on an old key ring I once got as a birthday present from an aunt; it's got my name on it, as well as a picture of a Christmas-style sprig of holly. I got a key ring from LEP Academy, but I never was bothered to switch the keys (at least four fitting no longer existing locks, and one from my old school locker) over. I've probably lost the LEP one now. 

The house is dark, as it usually is. My parents are probably asleep, my mother wearing an eye mask that covers a bruise that won't fully heal anymore. I decide to get a drink (hopefully there's some vodka in the freezer) before bed. 

And in the darkness of the kitchen my mother isn't crying, because she can't cry anymore, the tears were suffocated a long time ago. My father isn't caring, because he never cared. She's pushed against the kitchen bench, where she had chopped up onions and carrots hours ago. He's pushed the skirt of her nightgown up around her waist, and there are small drops of bright blood seeping from where his fingernails cut the skin of her thighs. The top of the dress is ripped slightly, and he bites at her shoulder blade as he fucks her. 

She doesn't cry. 

She sees me in the door, back-lit by the light coming in from a window in the hall. She still doesn't cry, yet she begs for me to run, when she doesn't have the courage to do so herself. Well, I don't have the selflessness, the mercy, needed to leave. 

That's enough; that's far more than enough. 

I don't know how, but I'm inside the room, pulling his small, weak body off my mother and pulling his hair until he looks at me. He's not scared, but he's not a monster either. Monsters are never scared. But he's got a weak chin, and my hazel eyes, and dark hair that's thinning on top, and one earlobe lower than the other. His teeth don't drip blood and his fingernails don't turn to claws when it's full moon. He's not a monster. 

Monsters are never punched, they're slain by princes with silver swords, or maidens with a drop of blood and a pure heart. 

Monsters aren't real, they don't smirk when they think they've won, nor flinch when they realize they aren't going to. 

They aren't scared, never scared. 

Fear doesn't rest in their eyes (_in front of the pain_) when they are on the floor, looking up at one they always underestimated and never respected. They never are faced with the reality of fists and boots and anger that can't be sedated with anyone's words. They never feel punch after punch bruise their skin. They never are watching, as if from a meter above their body, as they are pulled up from the floor again, propped against a chair as if that would make them be a worthy opponent once more, when he was never a worthy opponent to anyone. 

They never feel the click as their neck snaps. 

Monsters can never die; they are never scared of death. 

So maybe he was a monster, because he didn't think I'd be able to kill him. But I'd always known I'd be able to. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Trouble pulled the electronic wings from his back and shoved them into his bag. Sometimes it's better to walk, sometimes it's better to have both feet on the ground. And sometimes it's comforting, it makes him feel like he did years and years ago when he didn't know the meaning of innocence, because he hadn't yet felt the lack of it. 

His key is still on a keychain he'd found in a souvenir store years ago, and it displayed a model of a famous statue of Frond. Trouble flew – or walked – past it everyday on his way into the Plaza, it was nothing special. But some people think that it is, they buy key chains of it with the idea to never forget, even though they know the chain is likely to be lost, buried somewhere at the back of a bookshelf of junk, within days. 

The caravan is of the breed that was never intended to move at all, only to sit in a park somewhere, being a home and a refuge. He likes it, even though it's small and cramped. He moved out because it was expected, because his mother wanted him to not feel obliged to be there, not because he felt any urge for freedom or individuality. He came back often though, every Thursday and Monday at least, when they had dinner together. 

Grub was colouring in a picture of an action-hero, comic-book style. The creature, dressed in red and yellow spandex, stood over his enemies with Right on his side. Right and Wrong, they were invisible though. 

Grub looked up. "Trub!" He pushed himself up off the floor and gave his brother a childish hug. "Mummy got me a new book today, Trubs, she said… um… Nikki? Well, someone told her it was good." He pulled a paper-backed novel seemingly from nowhere and displayed it to Trouble, who grinned and read the title. 

"_Journey to the Center of the Earth_. Oh, this is a very good book, Grub. It's a Mud Man book, so it's a bit funny, since they don't know about us fairies down here in the Earth, but it's good. Do you want me to read it to you, or is Mummy going to?" 

"Could you, Trub? You have different voices for people, but Mummy can't do that." 

"Yeah, Mum can never get the voices right, can she?" 

Grub shook his head 'no'. 

"Well, sure thing." Trouble sat down on the couch, which was squished against one wall of the caravan. Grub curled up beside him, his head on Trouble's shoulder, letting himself be lost in the story, because he wasn't burdened by the memory of being able to read it for himself without stuttering, while his big brother sat upstairs considering life and death, fish and chips – illogicality, but completion. 

"_My Uncle Lidenbrock. On 24 May 1863, which was a Sunday, my uncle, Professor Lidenbrock, came rushing back towards his little house, No. 19 Konigstrasse, one of the oldest streets in the old quarter of Hamburg. Martha must have thought she was behindhand, for the dinner was only just beginning to sizzle on the kitchen stove. 'Well,' I said to myself, 'if my uncle is hungry he'll make a dreadful fuss, for he's the most impatient of men'_ –" 

* * *

END OF DEATH


End file.
